Not Much of a Genius
by dependsonthesituation
Summary: John wonders what it would be like being the bad guy for a change and challenges Sherlock in his own little game of wits. Established John/Sherlock, some random fun Mystrade, and some stupid fun with the Scotland Yarders.
1. Chapter 1: The Bad Guy

Warning: If you don't like boy/boy, I'm wondering why you even clicked on this story. Maybe some stronger stuff laer on but not in this chapter yet. I'll tell you when we get to it.

Disclaimer: Obviously, I don't own BBC's Sherlock or any of the characters from the show or book. All rights go to Moffat and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Though this particular story is my own, no doubt about that.

Summary: John wonders what it would be like if he was on the other side of the law for a change and challenges Sherlock for a little game of wits and crime. Established John/Sherlock and some random Mystrade thrown in there. My very first Sherlock fanfic in which I was brave enough to show the world.

Chapter 1: The Bad Guy

"Hey, Sherlock? I've been wondering-"

"Not too much I hope."

John ignored the common twinge of annoyance and instead violently bounces his general weight on a newly acquired bruise Sherlock received being careless on their recent case. The younger man hissed sharply and nearly shoved the other man off his lap. John yelped and gripped Sherlock's ridiculously soft bathrobe to prevent from falling off their small couch which then prompted the consulting detective to reflexively grope at John's jumper and jerk him back back heavily in to his chest. Both men tilted dangerously.

In the end, after much cursing, flailing limbs, and tugs, the two boys found their rolls reversed. Sherlock huffed, and crossed his arms like a child in John's lap, refusing to spend anymore time on such a useless game.

John, was just fine with their new positions and adjusted his detective till his marble cheek was cradled against John's shoulder.

"As I was saying," John continued casually, "Remember that night at the pool?"

"Of course I do."

"You know, when Moriarty had me speaking for him and then you found out I had semtex strapped to my chest?"

"Get to the point, John."

"Yes well I've been wondering, when I came out to meet you, did it cross your mind to wonder if I was actually Moriarty?"

Sherlock hesitated. John craned his neck around and tried to hide his smile as he watched the expressions flicker across the detective's face.

John loved this. Everyone has this profound notion that that Sherlock has never harbored any compassionate emotions to any human being. Hell, according to everyone else, Sherlock is the biggest frozen, ass-berg on the planet. Beautiful, cold, and dangerous; but downright useless in anywhere but the churning oceans of London crime.

They're dead wrong of course, and that is what John loved. His Sherlock never shows the emotions he could control, and when he couldn't control them, it was usually in front of John. Only 10% of an iceberg is visible above water; the other 90% of it was currently sitting in a doctor's lap on 221B Baker st.

Sherlock finally spoke, but hesitantly and avoided eye contact, "Of course John. Though it was quick, the thought was the first to cross my mind. Anyways, I think I would have noticed by then if you were Moriarty; which we have established you aren't."

"What if I was?"

"There are no "What if's", John. There is only, "What is"."

John quirked an eyebrow, "Fine, then "What is" I was Moriarty?"

Those brilliant blue irises glowed in the dull lamplight as it turned to meet the cool oceanic gaze. Sherlock spoke with whispered conviction, "You aren't."

John sighed, "Sherlock-"

"But if you were," Sherlock continued. That charming little smirk quirked up on those soft bow lips; his teeth flashing slightly, "Then I wouldn't love you."

John frowned, this wasn't the response he was hoping for, "What do you mean? Wouldn't I be the same person but just, you know, bad?"

"Considering the direction of this conversation, I'm assuming the "Moriarty" we're discussing here is not as in the person Moriarty, but "Moriarty" as in, "The Bad Guy"." Sherlock made a face, "Quite frankly John, you are never to be this "bad person" that is so dominant in your thoughts at the moment and I doubt you ever could be. Your reliability, compassion, bravery, and loyalty; added to your great fondness for cuddling, tea, and horrible jumpers would, in my experience, make a poor excuse for a villain. Even a criminal mastermind would become a saint with _your_ tight-lipped ethical principles. "Moriarty" is not John Watson. Therefore, I would not love "John Watson" unless he was, the you, John Watson."

John took a moment to put his head around this new revelation, "So... you wouldn't love me... because the me as "Moriarty", would not be the me I am right now? You don't think I could be still be me and still be bad at the same time?"

"Of course not, John! Moriarty is extraordinarily clever, and completely unconcerned with the welfare of humanity. A man like you, who loses eight times in a row in Connect Four against a ten year old-"

"Seven times..." John grumbled.

"- and gets himself stuck a tree for a stupid cat, could never be capable of being a "Moriarty"."

The doctor blinked and took in all the information. Flattery from Sherlock Holmes is not a common thing, and even now, John still wasn't sure if he should be overjoyed with these latest observations that seemed so carefully thought out, or offended that Sherlock believes he lacks the capabilities of being bad at all, "But if I was Moriarty, wouldn't I be more interesting? Wouldn't you want someone more who can keep you on your toes? I'm completely normal after all."

"Stop thinking John, its annoying." Sherlock snapped and snaked his long fingers slowly through his blogger's hair. He drags their foreheads together affectionately; a gesture he's learned long ago that always took the tension away from John's shoulders. Their lips just centimeters away, and their eyes so close, it was like seeing their future together. Clear, but full of danger and passion, "Of course you're normal to everyone else, John. No doubt about that. But you are _my_ extraordinary."

John giggled, kissing the tip of the detective's nose, "Since when did you become such a sap?"

"I'm stating this obvious, John. Mere conclusions based on data and observations acquired over time. How does that make me a "sap"?" Sherlock's eyebrows came together. You could literally see that little hamster in his head spinning around in confused circles.

John just smiled and decided not to mention the fact that the very same "High-Functioning Sociopath" Detective had told him he loved him twice in one casual conversation, "Well, even if I'm not Moriarty, I think it would be fun to be the bad guy."

"Hmm, indeed."

"Have you ever considered being the bad guy?"

Sherlock smirked again, "Yes, but I find it is more fun to chase then to run."

A mischievous gleam was in John's eyes, "Fine, then I'll be the bad guy, you'll be the good guy, and you can chase me around all you want." The little Doctor brought his hand up and traced slow circles through the baby curls at the nape of his lover's beautiful neck. His eyes dilated and spoke of promise. His hands caressing a crescendo in the symphony of sinful passion he knew would coax forward a wonderful night.

The Detective's voice rumbled deep, the light of the chase and his own promises in his eyes, "Is that a challenge, dear Watson?"

A/N: I'm going to try to post and update this story often and I've already written a couple more chapters. I hoped you liked this start, but let me just say chapter 2 was much more fun to write then the first.


	2. Chapter 2: Mr Doctor

Warning: If you don't like boy/boy, I'm wondering why you even clicked on this story. Maybe some stronger stuff laer on but not in this chapter yet. I'll tell you when we get to it.

Disclaimer: Obviously, I don't own BBC's Sherlock or any of the characters from the show or book. All rights go to Moffat and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Though this particular story is my own, no doubt about that.

Summary: John wonders what it would be like if he was on the other side of the law for a change and challenges Sherlock for a little game of wits and crime. Established John/Sherlock and some random Mystrade thrown in there. My very first Sherlock fanfic in which I was brave enough to show the world.

Chapter 2: Mr. Doctor

The presence of Sherlock Holmes in the offices of New Scotland Yard is never welcomed. In fact, the only reason he is allowed to bypass the questions and the nonsense security is his outstanding track record and his common appearances. There's no reason to stop a positive force in the world, even if he is a "high functioning" arse. Nothing stops the taunts however, and sometimes it seems like the entire police force is taking part in some kind of contest to see who can insult Sherlock Holmes the most. It isn't like he's completely defenseless either, Sherlock Holmes can be just as cruel when he wants to. The man himself is so proud and seemingly so unaffected, that no one thinks twice about shooting their latest most poisonous derision.

So when that same man turns up in their lounge, hysterically demanding to see DI Lestrade with... is that tears in his eyes?... and his button-up un-tucked, no one could think of anything to say but, "He's in his office."

In moments, that Detective (who suspiciously looks like Sherlock-bloody-Holmes) was bounding into the office of Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade, slamming the door behind him, and pacing around the room like a rabid dog. The man behind the desk of paper towers looked up from his work. His tired eyes widen as he takes in the unusual sight, "Sherlock... what the hell-"

"Stupid. STUPID!" Sherlock's coat swishes violently in his wake, stirring the air and tossing forms all over Greg's office. The people outside watched through the glass walls and easily listened in on the conversation, "I should have known he was in danger from the start. How could I have missed it. HOW could I have let him out of my sight? The notes, the random empty phone calls, the stupid pranks on our doorstep-"

"Sherlock, what in the bloody hell-"

"John's been kidnapped." Sherlock spat, fixing the fierce blue fire in his eyes on the humble detective, all tears evaporated. He threw himself into the chair opposite from Lestrade and steepled his fingers together beneath his chin; staring at nothing and thinking a million miles an hour.

Lestrade was stunned, "He's been... what?"

It was frightening how fast the mask of calm regained across his features, "Keep up Inspector. John is gone and he's not answering any of my texts. He's not angry, obvious by the shag we had this morning. If he was out with a friend, shopping, or stuck at work, he would have told me beforehand."

Lestrade eyes the other Detective cautiously, "Maybe he needed a break? You have been on quite a few cases recently."

Sherlock let out a frustrated sigh and waved him off, "Don't be an idiot, today is our second-year anniversary since our romantic involvement. Though it's a ridiculous date used only as a pathetic excuse to celebrate a relationship, John unfortunately, would never miss it for the world. We had reservations for this evening, judging by the neat state of his suit."

"Wow has it really been two years? I should get that man a medal." Greg mused.

"Focus, Inspector," Sherlock snapped, "As a friend of John's and my... colleague, I thought you would have been more worried about his well-being."

"Oh let off. He's probably off somewhere and his phone died."

Sherlock fixed the man across from him with a calculating stare, "There was a note."

Greg nodded slowly and told himself he should be used to that look by now, but that didn't stop him from feeling like he was being stripped raw in front of the man, "And what did that note say?"

"John was-"

"AND IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII, WILL ALWAYS LOVE YOOOOUUUUUU AAHHHH EEEIIIII WILL ALWAYS..."

Both detectives jumped. It took a few moments for Lestrade to realize it was only Sherlock's ringtone... as absurd as that may sound... Sherlock literally rocketed from his seat and frantically dug for his phone deep in his jacket pocket, "John. Hello? JOHN!"

"Hello, Mr. Detective." A high pitch voice, obviously altered by a device, greeted on the other side, "I hope I haven't interrupted anything."

After a look of immense realization, Sherlock calmed, slowly altering himself and replacing the barb wires on his emotions. He glances at Lestrade and eases the phone between them while switching it to speaker, "Oh, not at all. May I ask who's speaking and why you have my partner's phone?"

"Hmm, John-boy is only allowing me the honor of borrowing it for a bit. I never give my name on a first date by the way, but if I must, you can merely address me as, Mr. Doctor."

Lestrade snorted, "Mr. Doctor? Is this some kind of joke?"

"Oho! Is that Detective Inspector Lestrade? I don't remember ordering a threesome." The voice chuckled, "Though I must admit, I'm a very popular guy. Did you like my little love note? John-boy thought it was... refreshing."

Unamused, Sherlock smirks and tugs the slip of paper from his pocket, "_"Don't come and find me. I've been kidnapped. Love, John"_."

"Well?"

"Bland."

"I'm sorry to hear that," The voice actually seemed a bit put-out, "Thought you might have appreciated the irony..."

"What are your motives in kidnapping John Watson?" Lestrade spoke up clearly.

"Did you really run to the police for help? I expected more from you, Sherlock." The voice teased, completely ignoring the question.

"Then think of them as tools rather then an advantage," Sherlock snapped, "Besides, I seem to have lost my handcuffs."

"Right..."

Lestrade watched the exchange anxiously, "You still didn't answer my question Mr... Doctor. What do you hope to gain when you kidnapped John Watson?"

The high-pitch voice laughed, "Everything! The chance to test my wits against the great Sherlock Holmes, and an excuse to speak to him whenever I please. Its love. I'm in love with you, Mr. Holmes, and I want nothing more then to have you chase me around until you catch me in your arms. John-boy was just the incentive."

Sherlock reseated himself across Lestrade, his fingers fidgeting restlessly on the table and his eyes fixed on the phone as if it was Mr. Doctor himself, "You want a game."

"Exactly! A game of tag, and you're it."

"I don't know the rules."

"It's simple," Mr. Doctor replied, "I give you a puzzle, and you solve it. Each correct answer gets you closer to me and ultimately, Dr. Watson."

Lestrade leaned forwards to join the conversation, "And what happens if Sherlock gives the wrong answer?"

"Mr. Holmes will do whatever I require of him."

"And if I don't?" Sherlock challenged.

"Oh come on, where's the fun in that? Don't you want to play the game? It's only John-boy's life on the line after all. "

Sherlock seemed frozen in place, a marble statue molded right in the Inspector's office. Lestrade turned to him and almost commented on his apparent lack of words. Sherlock always liked to think aloud so the lack of comment was unsettling. The voice on the other side waited silently and patiently.

When he finally spoke, the words were chosen carefully and tightly wrapped in a tense package. "And how do I know if John is still alive? How do I know he's not already dead at the bottom of the Thames?"

"Oh but that's the fun part Mr. Detective," The voice replied practically bursting with glee, "You don't."

Lestrade's breath caught, and he swallowed down the panic rising in his chest. He needed to stay calm. John needed everyone to be at the top of their game. Someone in panic can't lead an investigation.

Sherlock was already thinking. You could see it. His eyebrows pulled together, the thoughts flashing across his face. Lestrade had no doubt that if it wasn't John's life on the line, Sherlock would be bursting at the seams with excitement and skipping on his merry way over to the crime scene.

"I'll be sending you your first puzzle tonight at exactly six o'clock pm." The voice continued, "And don't you worry, I'm taking special, good care of John-boy for you. Good luck, Mr. Holmes. Ta."

The silence that followed after the audible click of the lost connection held both men still. Greg glances furtively at the consulting detective and was the first to speak, "I'll begin investigations immediately... with your permission of course."

Sherlock's gaze flickers blankly over to the other detective, "My permission?"

"Well, I think the best place to start is in your flat, and considering our past endeavors..."

"Oh yes of course," Sherlock waved impatiently.

"And the evidence?"

"What?"

"You mentioned notes and the pranks." Lestrade reminded.

"Yes yes yes. It's all there."

"You seem calm now," The DI commented dryly, "Finally cracked have you?"

Sherlock stood suddenly and stepped in his hurried way to the door, "Well Inspector, I'll leave you to your investigations..."

"And where do you think you're going?" Greg gaped in disbelief.

"I have a brother to visit." Sherlock opened the door and smirked as half the office hurried away back to their stations, as if they weren't listening in on the most intriguing conversation just moments before.

"Hey freak," Agent Sally Donavan didn't even bother trying to fake an excuse, "So I heard your precious Doctor got kidnapped again. I did warn him you know."

"Sally," Sherlock acknowledged while walking pass. She was about to comment on the absence of his usual banter when he stopped in his tracks as if he hit a wall. He glances back and considered her for a moment, "You colored your hair."

"Finally noticed have you?" Donavan mocked, she flipped her newly golden locks over her shoulder proudly, "It's been like this for weeks. You must be losing your touch."

"Ah yes, I must've deleted it," Sherlock gave her a tight-lipped smile, "Traumatic experiences never seemed to be the most important things to keep in my hard-drive. Let me be the first to tell you how terribly sorry I am over your break-up with Anderson."

"We haven't broken up!" Sally fumed.

Sherlock hummed thoughtfully, "Then better early then never! Now, Sergeant Donavan, before you have anything more pointless things to say, I have a citizen to rescue. Come along Joh-"

The man stopped himself, his mouth snapping shut with an audible click. Without another word, and with Sally staring after him with the stormiest of expressions, Sherlock hurried out of New Scotland Yard as if the giant, bloodthirsty Hound were at his heels. He dug into his coat pocket and pulled out his cell. His fingers flying across the keyboard:

_This is stupid. -SH_

A black car pulled up beside him. The detective got in before the wheels even stopped turning and gingerly adjusted himself on the plush seats. They were nice, but they were _Mycroft's_; he'd rather be sitting on nails then to be contaminated with his brother's luxuries. Anthea glances at him over her phone and snorted. He glared at her rather distastefully until the familiar ring pulls Sherlock's attention back to his text messages.

_Getting cold feet are we? -JW_

_I'm simply stating my profound disinterest. -SH_

_But this is fun! Don't you want to chase me around? -JW_

_Why would I want to chase you around when I could take you whenever I please? -SH_

_Not anymore Mr. Holmes. The game is on, so you'll just have to suffer until the end just like any other case. -JW_

_You're a cruel man, Mr. Doctor. -SH_

_I love you too, Mr. Detective. -JW_


	3. Chapter 3: I don't want to

**A/N: Sorry for such a late update! I've been watching the Olympics (just saw Phelps win his 21st) and writing and rewriting this chapter. I really don't think I'll ever be satisfied with it no matter how many times I fix it so I'll just give it to the world to judge. **

**The bad editing on my last two chapters were due to the fact I lacked "word" at the time and I was just editing the best I could by rereading it. I didn't do a very good job so sorry XP I also haven't brit-picked them (I'm just an ignorant American) so please don't shoot me for bad word choice and horrible sentence structure.**

**Anyways, thanks for all your support, comments and favorites! It always makes me happy when people actually read my things, so I've been on cloud-nine! Enjoy! ^.^**

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Chapter 3: I don't want to.

John chuckled while the man across from him eyed him dryly; a fake smile plastered on his face, "Are you satisfied?"

"Oh yes," John grinned and settled himself comfortably in one of Mycroft's best cushioned seats while shoving his cell phone in to his jacket pocket. "It went smoother then I hoped."

"Good, very good." Mycroft, in all his posh glory, took a dainty sip from his teacup. Mini telly-screens beside him displayed various areas of observation, including Lestrade's office, Angelo's, and the sitting room of 221B. The other places shall not be mentioned due to the risks of national security, I hope you will understand. Mycroft, being the British government, was very well-off and owned a flat that suited his expensive but classic tastes. His floors were a deep, chestnut wood, and his furniture could at least boast a hundred years old. Only original paintings, inspected by Mycroft himself, adorned the scarlet walls.

The man himself was dressed in his usual, fine-cut attire with an umbrella resting on the arm of his seat, "When you asked me for this favor I never imagined it would be so satisfyingly amusing."

John took a sip from his own tea, hiding a satisfied grin, "Well half of that was just very good acting. I doubt anyone would have bought the story if Sherlock hadn't been there acting all dramatic."

"Indeed," The elder Holmes brother rested his feet across from him and places his hands neatly in his lap. He lacked the intensity of the youngest, but the sense of power and superiority hardly diminished. "I do hope you know the consequences."

"I thought about this long and hard, Mycroft. It's too late to change my mind now." John smirked defiantly, "It'll all be worth the trouble in the end. You'll see."

"I look forward to the results." Mycroft checked his watch, "My brother should be arriving shortly. Have you told him yet?"

"No, but he must already know by now." John shrugged.

"My brother never enjoyed surprises," Mycroft smiled at some distant memory, "His sixth birthday was a disaster. Not a single kid from his class arrived to the party, and he was so excited to show off his chemistry set."

"He was surprised no one came?" John's eyebrows scrunched together. John couldn't imagine Sherlock ever really wanting such "mundane" company, even for a birthday.

"Oh no, he expected it!" Mycroft grinned.

"Then why-"

"What he didn't expect," Mycroft continued, "Was the ridiculous amount of relatives mummy took upon herself to invite when she realized no one would attend. Snot-nosed children became kissy aunts and uncles. Truly a traumatic experience for our young Holmes and the most socks he ever received in his life."

The image of Sherlock Holmes at the mercy of old wrinkly lips and a staggering collection of socks will haunt John's funny bone for a very long time, "I would have loved to have been there and see his face."

"Oh I'm sure mummy saved a few photographs." Mycroft smiled evilly.

John was laughing heartily when Sherlock finally entered the room. The consulting detective stared shell-shocked at the entity which is named John Watson before he shot a glare at his older brother. Sherlock never thought himself as the romantic sort. Ever since the duo advanced their relationship to the title of "lovers", nothing much had changed. Sherlock just enjoyed the fact that he could kiss his other half whenever he pleases and the perks of having someone to tell him how smart he is when no one else would. It made him feel like he finally owned something that doesn't have to be constantly fought for.

John was the romantic one. He snuggles up at night, cooks enough breakfast for two, holds his hand, brings home flowers, and beats the crap out of every man that points a knife at his chest.

It was only on rare occasions like these when Sherlock became a man no one thought would have been possible: illogical and unreasonable.

"Oh hello love, Mycroft was just telling me a story about you," greeted John, still grinning from ear to ear. "That reminds me, did you invite your mum? I would love to see her again."

"Let's go John. We need to leave now." Sherlock announced.

"What? Where are we going?" John blinked.

"Out."

"Out? We can't go out Sherlock, I'm supposed to be kidnapped remember?"

Sherlock heaved a frustrated sigh and threw his hands in the air, "John, we are not playing your ridiculous game. I refuse to waste my time chasing around a fake villain just so you can stop being bored!"

A frown replaces John's jolly mood and he returns Sherlock's glare in another long stare-down. The consulting detective refused to lose this time; the last time resulted in buying a replacement jug of milk _himself_ after using the original one for science. It wasn't his fault the mold grew so fast. John insisted it shouldn't have been used for experiment in the first place. Sherlock reasoned that it was no big deal and that John would have had to buy a new jug in a few days anyhow. The argument ended with a drawn-out silent tension that maddened the detective enough to swoosh out of the room and come back from the store with milk and a bonus box of mint tea. He wasn't going to lose a second time though. Not this time.

For John, he really didn't understand why Sherlock was suddenly so adamant with this game. Just the night before he actually seemed a bit interested when he heard John's plan and agreed on John's terms with that look he got when he was faced with a difficult crime to solve. Despite his lazy tendencies, Sherlock is a dedicated man; when he does things, he does it all the way. Something must be bothering him to suddenly change his mind.

So it was John who acted first. His shoulders sagged and his eyes closed with a sigh, "Fine Sherlock, if you don't want to, we don't have to."

"Good," Sherlock smiled triumphantly, "It never would have worked anyways, John. I would have solved the case in the matter of hours, considering how you were going on. You're so obvious, even the Yard would have figured us out before we even reached the grand finale."

"Right..." John stared stonily down at his shoes, his heart sinking. Sherlock's words digging trenches into his shoulders. Secretly, he hoped the other man would feel guilty when he saw how hurt he felt, it was a long-shot but Sherlock had his miracle days.

Today was not that day and Sherlock was totally oblivious. He was already heading towards the door, "And that name, _Mr. Doctor_? Really John, could you not have been more plebeian?"

The Doctor, his eyebrows scrunching together and creating lines in the tanned skin of his forehead, gave Mycroft a curt nod before joining the other man at the door. It still amazed Mycroft on how much John enables his eccentric brother, especially on times like these when he's acting very much like a selfish little brat.

"Sherlock, I'm disappointed in you," Mycroft tutted from his high-backed seat, his head tilted to the side, "Could you be anymore obvious?"

Sherlock stiffened, his hand gripping the doorknob tighter then necessary, "Obvious?"

Another long silence, "John, if it isn't too much trouble I would like a little word with my brother."

John glances nervously between the Holmes siblings, "Do you want me to le-"

"Stay," Sherlock snapped and rounded aggressively back towards Mycroft, "Anything my brother has to say to me can be said in front of you."

"Well said," Mycroft grinned.

Sherlock whooshed dramatically into the chair opposite to Mycroft, leaving the expensive burnished tea table between them. John retook his seat next to him.

Mycroft took his time; a habit of his he knew always drove Sherlock up the wall, "Now let's talk about this like mature adults shall we? What's really bothering you?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, already knowing where this conversation was headed, "Shut-up, Mycroft."

"So nothing is bothering you?"

"I told you already, I'm bored!"

"Really? There isn't any other reason?"

"No."

"You're lying." Mycroft declared smugly, "You looked far from a bored man. Actually, you were having _fun_. You and John, playing the biggest prank on the Scotland Yard? Why, what could be more perfect? Something happened didn't it, Sherlock?"

There was another pregnant pause. Sherlock glances over at John; the blogger already looking at him with his most patient of gazes. A dull pain throbs in Sherlock's chest and heat rises up his neck. He was always bothered when his body did this, a new feeling he's concluded (after much trial and deduction) he will never get used to.

"Sherlock?" Sherlock jumps when John's hand rests on his knee, John's palm burning through his trousers. They were looking at each other again, a moment in which has been dubbed jokingly by the Yard as eye-sex. But they were widely mistaken (as always). When Sherlock was looking at John, and John was looking at Sherlock, it was when both men truly understood each other without saying a thing.

_'Oh Sherlock'_ John shook his head, a small smile appearing, _'You can't be jealous can you?'_

_'I'm not, jealous!' _Sherlock frowned, his eyebrows pulling down stubbornly, _'I'm just...'_

_'Lonely?'_

_'Lost.'_

_'I'm still here, aren't I?'_

_'But you're not going to be with me.' _His eyes flickered to his brother, _'And you were laughing with Mycroft.'_

John giggled.

"I hope I'm not interrupting," Mycroft broke the silence, "Have you two worked everything out or do I have to leave the room?"

"Leaving would be nice."

John rolled his eyes, "Sherlock, you can't ask your brother to leave his own flat. He's already going out of his way to let me stay here for the next few days."

Sherlock's eyes flashed, "You're still staying."

John grinned, "We're still going to do this Sherlock, even if you don't want to."

"I'll tell them the truth," Sherlock warned; his last line of attack.

"No you won't. You're too proud for that." John's ever-steady line of defense.

Sherlock groaned, "Fine! Okay? Fine. I'll play the game. Are you happy now?"

"Yep!" And he wasn't lying. John's face was glowing, his shoulders relaxed and at ease again. Sherlock felt that familiar pain in his chest and decided it would be best to take his leave right about now before he made a bigger fool of himself in front of his brother.

"They'll be at our flat right about now," Sherlock made a face and headed towards the door again, "I'll be back within a couple of hours."

"Sure love," John waved, making himself comfortable in his seat again and accepting another cup of tea from Mycroft, "I'll be here."

"Oh before you leave, I have a little question about the... "finale"." Mycroft interjected suddenly, breaking the happy atmosphere with a mischievous glint in his eyes, "Which one of you will be wearing white?"

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**First time using the line-thingys (dividers? ). I shall use it more often when I finally get into the plot in the next chapter. By the way, I hope it doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out the finale. I always wanted to write something like it, so here's my chance. Anyways, hope you weren't too disappointed and irritated with my inconsistent writing style. It bothers me too. Hope you keep reading! Till next time~**


	4. Chapter 4: White

**A/N: OH MY GOD IT'S AN UPDATE. **

**Okay yeah that's my sarcasm to myself because I really haven't been a very good person to my readers. I'm sorry my friends! I love you all for reading this story and I hope I don't disappoint you all in the next chapters to come. This really is the longest fic I've ever written and I especially love this fandom and this beautiful pairing. I could get a bit picky with my writing sometimes and now I have homework to worry about...**

**Thank you all for your comments/favorites/follows as that is what really motivates me to keep on going. I also would like to mention I wouldn't mind criticism as this story is ultimately my experimentation for future fics. I can only get better and I would be happy to listen to anything you guys have to say!**

**Anyways here's the usual: Not** brit-picked** and un-beta'd. I don't own any of the characters and everything belongs to BBC's awesome Gatiss and Moffat. The originals to Sir Conan Doyle. And the character portrayals by our very own brilliant Benedict Cumberbatch and the beautiful Martin Freeman. **

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Chapter 4: White

Sherlock was in a dark mood all the way home. His look was so livid, so murderous; the taxi driver nearly waved the fee for the ride.

The day is not going how Sherlock thought it would go. He didn't expect it to be so hard to not have John on-call, and he definitely did not expect John to get along so well with his blasted older-brother. That was the biggest betrayal of all.

The police cars outside of 221B Baker Street was just the icing on the cake of the blackness of Sherlock Holmes' mood. Neon police tape was surrounding the flat and some of the force were posted in strategic areas to move along curious onlookers.

Sally saw him first and alerted Lestrade through the walkie, "Freak's here."

The consulting detective let himself in and stomped upstairs while ignoring Mrs. Hudson's nervous titters.

Lestrade knew it was Sherlock who entered the room without really looking up from his examinations of the cluttered tea-table, "Okay Sherlock, we've looked through the sitting room and John's bedroom upstairs without finding much of anything. Your room only had books so there wasn't much to be found there either, but I wanted to get your permission before we look through the- Bloody hell Sherlock, you look horrible! Are you alright?"

"I'm not wearing white."

"Come again?"

"I will _not_ be the one wearing white, Inspector."

"What are you going on about? What does white have to do with anything?"

"It has to do with _everything_!" Sherlock threw himself dramatically into his seat in front of the telly and tucked his knees up to his chest. "I can't be the one wearing white! _I _asked _him_!"

Stunned, Lestrade glances around at his team who was taking their time to stare at the misunderstood genius with a mixture of loathing and pity.

"I think he's finally lost it." Anderson's rat face poked downstairs from John's room, "By the way, is this your camera? I never thought of you as the sentimental type."

The young detective glances up, his lips twitched, "Oh yes, I've recently found sentimentality quite rewarding. However, I doubt you will find anything in pertaining to our case and I recommend you put that back on the nightstand where it belongs."

"I think you're hiding something," Anderson declared and switches on the little, silver digital camera, "and it's my job to find out exactly what that is-" The man choked on his last words. Very slowly, he lowered the camera. His beady eyes wide and his mouth dropping far enough to capture any passing flies.

Sherlock grinned, "Found what you were looking for?"

Speechless for once, Anderson shook his head and slowly made his way back upstairs. Lestrade thought it best not to ask.

"Control your team, Lestrade. Hardly professional." Sherlock resumed his moping but in lighter spirits.

"Oh yeah, and you're an expert on "professional"." Greg rolled his eyes, "Anyways, it doesn't seem like the kidnapper came here recently. We've got nothing much to go on."

"Oh I wouldn't say that." Sherlock gazed intensely at nothing but saw and heard every little detail he's observed from the last few hours as if they were right there in front of him screaming for his attention. Granted, he'll have to make some things up but there was enough to keep the DI busy, "Male, middle-aged, bachelor by the way he flirts shamelessly, but not gay, possibly bi-sexual. He's a writer, judging by his tendency to romanticize the situation, but not a professional as he has far too much time on his hands and unfulfilled fantasies. John isn't hurt (as far as I know), and the kidnapper hasn't seemed to gained any further information then what he's got from John's blog. Either Mr. Doctor hasn't realized the significance of his "incentive" or just lacks the maliciousness to act any further then a kidnapping. Probably the latter. You're looking for a man with simple tastes and a burning desire to prove himself. As for his name, it may be some feeble attempt at humorous irony."

The DI gawked, "You mean to tell me that you got all that from a singe phone call?"

"And the letter," Sherlock pulled the paper from his pocket, "This is a woman's handwriting, so, help from an outside source. Obviously not a girlfriend, bachelor remember? Possibly connections to someone rich considering the expense of this paper, wasted as it is on such a note."

"He had help? How do you know the nasty bugger isn't just some bored rich guy?"

Sherlock heaved a long-suffering sigh, mourning the stupidity of human-kind, "His accent; his speech patterns! Educated, but hardly the dialect of a well-spoken, high ranking gentleman. It isn't his money he's using, but the money of an interested sponsor."

Greg shook his head, amazed as always but with that familiar tinge on humiliation, "So where do we find him?"

"I've no idea." Sherlock lied and checked his watch, and then his cell. 6:01. _Not very punctual John. What on earth are you planning?_

It was at that exact moment that Sally Donovan entered the flat; a curious-looking, box held in her palms.

"Delivery for Freak from some homeless guy on the street. Said to get it to you as soon as possible." She hands the box over and crosses her arms, wondering if by some off chance she'll get some thanks or maybe even a nod.

Sherlock turns it over in his hands rapidly to check every possible nook and cranny that could provide any clue or notable detail. The box wasn't very large, but big enough to snugly rest across his fingers. It was unnecessarily elaborate with all types of pearly seashells settled within solid walls of sand; the texture was a mixture of rough and smooth. A soft green colored the trimmings of the lid and the bottom face.

"Looks like the beach," Greg offered.

"Hmm…" Sherlock eyed the fragile golden clasp, a tiny keyhole set as a guardian to the secrets of the little box.

He turned his attention back to Sally, "Is this all?"

She shook her head, "That's all."

"Are you sure? Are you sure you didn't drop some kind of key?"

Anderson, recovering spectacularly from his initial shock, stuck his head down to once again to contribute to the conversation, "Why? The great Sherlock Holmes can't open an innocent little box without a key? I think hell just froze over."

Sherlock rounded on the man who's only worth in life seems to be an attempt at forensics and was about to make another whipping retort, but was held back when his phone rang the same recognizable tune.

In an instant, the entire team froze to listen in on the speakerphone.

"Sherlock Holmes."

"Shirly!" The high-pitched voice greeted as if they were old friends. Sherlock grimaced at the tasteless nickname, "Did you get my gift?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied smoothly, "Though I do seem to be missing a key. Care to explain?"

"Not wasting any time are we?" Mr. Doctor chuckled, "Very well then, here is your first puzzle. Hidden within your flat is a clue. This clue will lead you to the first piece of the key and the second clue. Collect all three pieces and the box will be free for you to open and collect your reward."

"There must be a catch," Sherlock's eyes narrowed.

"There's always a catch."

"I have a time limit."

"Figured that out on your own have you? You have 48 hours."

"And if I don't open the box within that time?"

"You will do whatever I please." The voice replied lightly, "That includes, of course, any… _disagreements_ we need resolved."

Sherlock froze, his eyed widened when the intentional implication practically hammered his calm demeanor.

_Oh John, you beautiful demon._

Sherlock recovered quickly, "You realize I never lose."

"But we both know that's not quite true."

Sherlock frowned when an unfamiliar sensation pummeled him in the gut and writhed low in his chest, making it throb with a dull pain. It wasn't a very good feeling and it didn't take long for Sherlock to rate it low on his Human Feelings Scale from 1 to 10. This was a -20.

His eyebrows pulled together, lips parting as if to reply but no words came. He couldn't place what the hell was wrong with him all of a sudden, or quite frankly, _why_ it was happening. And that scared Sherlock more then he would care to admit.

The flat rang with the buzz of silence, all eyes on the consulting detective with the phone in his palm.

He hated this game. He hated having John so close, but so far away from his reach. He despised the lack of true intelligence currently moving about like a leper in his flat, and most of all he abhorred the fact that he was the one suffering through it all without being able to do anything about it.

But this is what John wanted; in fact, he was truly excited about it. Sherlock once read in one of Mrs. Hudson's magazines that a good relationship works best when there's excitement and sometimes a change of pace. The excitement, he could do. Change? Not so much. Sherlock never liked change, but he did love a challenge. The only good change Sherlock has ever been through was moving into 221B, and meeting John Watson. So when John concocted this scheme, he went along with the idea that they will both perform this amazing act and play the most hilarious prank together.

He never dreamed he would feel so… bad or so… lost…

But this was for John.

"Sherlock?"

It was John who brought him out of that painful reverie. Even separated on different sides of the spectrum on opposite sides of London and on opposing sides of the law, John knew there was something wrong with him. And, despite the ridiculously high voice, despite the chaos of their game, Sherlock held on to that one thing that never failed to remind him that there's still a world worth living in beneath his feet.

Sherlock's mind snapped to attention, "I'm still here."

"Oh God I didn't mean… I'm s-"

"So tell me, how do we start this game?" Sherlock cut in, hoping John didn't give anything away and the Yarders were as stupid as he knew they were.

The voice paused, and then cleared his throat, "Yes well, here's your clue and it'll lead you to the next one okay? Ready? _'My deathly grin froze long ago, from my perch I see, all I know.'_"

Sherlock sighed, "Obvious."

"Was it?"

"Was that really the best you could do?"

"Well actually I was having a hard time rhyming. Don't worry though; the rest won't be as easy."

Sherlock smirked, the feral light working its way back into his eyes again.

_Well if John wants to play, there's nothing to do but win._

"I would hope you're right, Mr. Doctor." He ended the call, "Or this game will be over before you say _white_."

* * *

John stared long and hard at the phone in his palm, his forehead crinkled in worry and his lips pursed thoughtfully.

"That was… interesting…" Mycroft mused, looking up from his papers in his hands.

John nodded. Mycroft is spending a surprising amount of time in his flat and John couldn't figure out if it was because he always spent his time at home or he was just enjoying John's company. Probably the former.

"Am I being too hard on him?" John muttered thoughtfully more to himself then anything.

Mycroft scoffed, "Are you worried about hurting my brother's feelings? Really John, don't you live with him?"

John rolled his eyes but didn't bother to answer. Mycroft was right of course. Only a few select things really bothered Sherlock Holmes' feelings and when they did, John usually wouldn't realize it until it was too late. Despite being so outspoken, Sherlock was a big-fat introvert when it came to his "weakness". A bored Sherlock, John could handle. A hurt Sherlock… it didn't happen enough. That's what scared John, because he couldn't shake that little nag that Sherlock was hiding some kind of feeling, and John had no idea how to handle it when he was all the way on the other side of London with no other way to contact him but through the villain, Mr. Doctor or the brother Mycroft Holmes.

It was tough being the bad guy.

Mycroft cleared his throat, "By the way John, are you still planning on going through with the commercial?"

"Hmm? Oh yes."

"My brother won't be very happy."

John quirked an eyebrow, "You don't sound very concerned though."

"There is no harm done in community service." Mycroft plastered on another grin.

John shook his head and rose to his feet, making a decision to go to bed early that night. There's only so much Mycroft Holmes one could take and John was afraid he was getting an overdose. No wonder Sherlock started smoking.

* * *

But he couldn't get to sleep. No matter how much he turned or how many pillows he fluffed, his eyes wouldn't even close. What's more disturbing was that Mycroft's smell was _everywhere_. A mixture of frosting and cinnamon. Mycroft was in the sheets, in the pillows, against the mattress, in the duvet covering his entire body-

Ew, stop thinking now.

Being in the army, John was used to sleeping in strange places previously used by other men. After the army, he slept alone unless he was lucky enough to find a date for the night. After moving in with Sherlock, John got used to (somewhat) to what he fondly called "Sher-life".

Sher-life basically consisted of constant footsteps creaking about the shared living room, abrupt shrills on a violin (or if he was lucky a melodic tune), and the clink or thud of a latest experiment. If there was a case going on, John would even get to hear the constant ramblings of the genius. Some brilliantly thought out and some so random, John wondered if he should just secretly record him and make a book out of it.

Then, since all this was usually performed at 3am, any random noise would be amplified by ten-folds

Someone once asked John what it was like living in 221B, John said that if he had to compare it to anything, it was like living in an asylum.

Then Sherlock cut in and ruined the joke by reminding him that there were no bars on the windows and that Mrs. Hudson would be a failure as a nurse as she can't even do the simplest task of brewing coffee when requested of her.

Oh God, he loved that man.

Maybe that was the problem.

Everything was so empty without Sher-life. Even after Sherlock finally stopped making so much noise at night and slept peacefully at John's side, Sherlock still created life. He talks in his sleep, he jabs John in he ribs, he takes up most of the pillow space, his hair was ticklish, and he clings on to John like alien face-hugger. John couldn't even sleep without Sherlock's smell, the mixture of antiseptic and the strawberry conditioner, clinging to his bed sheets.

"Sod this," John growled finally. He pushed himself from bed and headed back to the main room of Mycroft's home. It was weird staying with another man other then Sherlock, especially since it was his older brother Mycroft. When John was first there during "The Woman" case, he realized the place was exactly as he thought it would be. Old-fashioned, but modern.

He shuffled into the room and glances over to the chair he previously occupied earlier that evening, "You're already awake?"

"I never slept." Mycroft spoke with the Holmes nonchalant.

John checked his watch. 3am. Of course. "Right… Okay then, don't mind me…"

John shuffled over to the kitchen and found that the tea has long since settled and chilled. He scrapped it and on habit made another kettle enough for two.

"You couldn't sleep." It was more of a statement then a question.

John sighed and decided to play along; he turned to face the other Holmes while he waited for the tea to boil, "Yes."

"You miss him."

"Of course."

"Anything I could do to help?"

"N-… What?" John gaped.

Mycroft gave a long suffering sigh that John couldn't help but compare to his younger brother's, "John, although I am allowing you in my house as a favor, I am still entitled to treat you as an honored guest."

John was still gaping like a child witnessing a naughty act, "Erm… ah… no, it's fine. You don't need to. Really, I'm fine. Thanks."

Mycroft nodded and continued his work.

John stood there in silence for another long few minutes, still trying to get his head around what just happened. When the tea was ready, he did make enough for two but gave one to Mycroft who accepted without a word. John took his original seat and sipped his own tea in silence.

All in all, John will never forget that night.

* * *

**Critiques and comments are welcome! **


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